


pink is the flavor (solve the riddle)

by plannedserviceinterruption



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 19:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2823785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plannedserviceinterruption/pseuds/plannedserviceinterruption
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"how about a “our asshole mutual friends set us up on a blind date and didn’t tell us it was a blind date, so instead of getting to know each other we spent the entire ‘date’ scheming against them and decided an awesome way to get back at them would be to pretend to date and then have a horrendous breakup but now that we’re two months into this charade we’re not sure what’s real and what’s fake anymore” au" - from tumblr</p><p>Where both Darcy and Bucky have great friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pink is the flavor (solve the riddle)

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd.
> 
> all mistakes are mine.

"So, Stark's invited you to his party on Friday."

Bucky makes a non compliant noise at the back of his throat.

"No."

"Did you mean, 'Yes, Steve? That would be a great idea. I'm so excited to go and mingle. Especially when there's going to be people I have never met before who are dying to meet me.'"

Bucky groans and punches the sand filled bag, he hits it hard enough that it shifts Steve, who is supporting the bag. Steve merely grins, moving around so he can see Bucky, eyes crinkling like a loon.

"So whatdya think, Buck?"

"No."

"No, what?"

"No to everything you just said."

Steve shakes his head, motioning them to change positions but Bucky refuses, muscles tense and ready for battle. He unleashes a series of exceptionally dedicated punches, relishing in the way Steve winces and barely restrains the bag from exploding. It started out innocently, an invitation to train in the depths of the private gym of Stark Tower. Bucky should have known better.

"Come on, jerk, it's not like it's gonna kill you. One dinner. That's all that is. You didn't complain this much when we went shopping for new clothes."

Bucky stifles a scowl, if he shows a sign of weakness, Steve will be sure to exploit it like a shark with blood.

"That was to integrate me back into society, so I didn't look like, what did you say?" he raises his eyebrow, "a homicidal homeless drug addict."

Steve's left cheek twitches, his mouth trembling into a smile, but he manages to control it the last second.

The leather strains under Bucky's fists.

"There was nothing wrong with that look. Just the whole 'fuck off or I will stab you in the face' didn't really work in our favor to make people believe that you're less Winter Soldier and more Bucky Barnes.

This makes Bucky blink slowly, the adrenaline melting off his bones in the slow realization that Steve was trying to do something normal, and Bucky  _owes him so much,_  "I could give less of a shit about what people think of me. I did that cause you asked me to, punk." Steve's face softens and he thinks he's almost off the hook, "this, however, does nothing to make my image better."

Steve startles at that.

"This isn't some public relations bullshit, Buck. This is just me askin' you to give this a try. Everyone just wants you to feel welcome in the tower."

"Yeah, but I've met everyone. Remember? And they can make me feel welcome by not doing this party."

"Not everyone," Steve mutters, "come on, it will be good. Just one dinner and then I won't ask you to do anything social for at least a week."

Bucky bites his lip, considering the options. On one hand, he does not give a shit about the Avengers or whatever their group name was. He'd rather stay in his apartment and watch reruns of the baseball games than spend it uncomfortably silting dead end conversations with people he couldn't give less a shit about. But on the other, Steve has been relentless about him meeting everyone for the past month, a week without any of his hankering would be a godsend.

"One month."

"Two weeks."

"Three weeks. Or else my answer is still no."

"Fine."

Steve lets go of the bag and unwinds the tape in his knuckles. He trots down to where their bags are laying and pulls out two water bottles. He throws one at him and Bucky catches it gracefully in his flesh hand. The plastic crinkles under his fist as he squeezes the water into his mouth, water spilling down his neck. Steve crumples his bottle before replying.

"But dress nice. None of that mission gear. We're going to a restaurant, not a isolated terrorist cell in Budapest. Wear that blue button up with the pinstripes."

Bucky rolls his eyes, picking up his own gym bag, "I'm not taking advice from a guy who wears spangles on his ass."

"It's part of the uniform. Pretty sure you're the one wearing black everyday."

Bucky shakes his head, "weak for an insult. Black is inconspicuous. Spangles are not. You'd think that after ninety years, you'd get some fashion sense," he flexes his fingers after unravelling the tape, he continues, "I know how to dress myself, I'll actually find something that fits."

"My shirts fit just fine!"

"Yes, if you were a hundred pounds lighter and two inches shorter. Your clothes look like they might fit a toddler."

Steve sputters and chokes on his water. It's almost too easy. Bucky gives him a shit eating grin and pats him hard on the back.

"There, there Stevie, it won't do Carter good if you choked to death. Who would shut her up then?"

Steve gives him the finger.

 

**

 

Sometimes, she really loves Sharon Carter. She's hip, cool, doesn't take anyone's crap and has a penchant for being an excellent little shit when needed. Armed with a killer right hook and a stubborn mentality, she's great company.

Usually, anyway.

Squinting against the bright warmth of the afternoon sun, Darcy let's herself breathe. She's panting, laying underneath a free, arms crossed. Her legs are gelatin and her white shirt is sticking to her stomach with every exhale. Breathable, my ass, she thinks. She lifts the shirt and wipes it across her face just as Sharon comes around the corner.

And it's so unfair. Sharon looks like she just did a running ad for fucking GQ or something. Her blonde hair is in a ponytail, swinging with every beat of her steps. Calves looking perfectly muscly and Darcy swears, she's seen her smiling the whole time of their five mile run.

"Hey, Lewis."

Darcy makes a face, probably as attractive as she feels right now, "God, I hate it when you do that."

Up close, it's even worse. Sharon's shirt, unlike hers, is not drenched with sweat. It's a light pink shirt that's made of some light material. Her face is barely damp from sweat and the worst of all is that she smells like wildflowers and vanilla instead of sweat and defeat that Darcy emanates. Sharon's hair only needs to be blowing in the freaking wind to complete her look.

Sharon laughs, "what?"

"When you call me Lewis, I feel like your lackey or one of your minions you boss around," she explains. She presses her chilled water bottle onto her neck. It counter acts the blistering heat of the starting sunrise.

Sharon cackles, "you  _are_  my lackey. I'm training you so won't die when someone tries to kill you or Jane again. In the lab. Or your apartment. Or when you go get takeout and someone pulls a knife on you. Let's be real, if I wasn't there that one time at Bellagio's, you would have been, what was it? Oh yeah, a squashed Darcy pancake. Not that good of an option."

"Okay, first of all, how dare you. Second of all, I would be an amazing pancake if it didn't kill me. And third, I didn't ask for this. I asked for tips on how to defend myself and then suddenly, I'm running 5k everyday and throwing knives at walls with some  _monster_ , by the way, when I say monster, I mean a fit five foot seven girl who likes to make me do suicides at the ass crack of dawn."

"Runnings not that ba-"

"Runnings the worst, Carter! I know it keeps you healthy, but at what cost!?"she heaves a dramatic sigh and falls back against the tree. Sharon snickers and ruffles her hair like a dog.

"It's for your own good. We're building up stamina right now. You've done well in knife throwing, soon we'll get you a firearm and then we'll really get to  _enjoy_."

There's something in the way that she says 'enjoy' that makes Darcy twists her face, "okay, gross. Keep it in your pants, Carter."

"Oh, you like it," she winks at Darcy's disgusted face then offers her hand to pull Darcy up.

"No, okay. I don't know what's with you SHIELD people, but is violence just a straight up fetish for you guys?"

Sharon looks pensive for approximately 5 seconds.

"Yep."

"Great."

When Darcy's leg doesn't feel like jelly, they walk along the sidewalk, amicably chatting about their lives and how it has changed since they have last seen each other. Mostly, they bitch about how stupid Stark has been since Pepper left on the Sunday before for a meeting in Dubai. 

"- and then he has the audacity to ask where the coffee machine is right after I did that!"

"I'm so lucky I don't have to deal with Tony Stark."

"Yeah, I know. You just hang out with Son of Coul and boss people around."

"I do things!" Sharon yells. The defensiveness amuses Darcy.

Darcy grins, "things that you can't tell me, so does that even count?"

"I can't tell you because-"

"I don't have clearance. I know. Which translates to super duper secret mission things which equates to stabbing people and getting their state secrets out of them."

"That's not all I do. I also am in charge of the-"

"HAH, so you admit you  _do_  do that!"

"In charge of the logistics department and training youngins' like you."

"Youngin'? I'm younger than you by three years, grandma! Isn't Steven older than you by like 75 years? Robbing the grave, aren't you?"

Sharon rolls her eyes. They're a block from Stark Industries and Darcy's never been so glad to see the sweet, sweet building. It's a hot as an oven outside and she's sure she's been leaving a trail of sweat from the park.

"Chronologically, yes. But in reality, he's barely pushing thirty. Don't make this creepy, Darcy."

"I'm not making this creepy. But, time is linear," she sing songs and pushes ahead to get the door. They walk in and deposit their empty bottles into the blue recycling bin. They're about to go their separate ways when Sharon suddenly turns around.

"Hey, you got the invite to Stark's party on Friday, right?"

She thinks back to any sort of ornate and lavish piece of paper she might have skimmed through but never read, "Uhm. No?"

"What? I told Jane to give it to you, I handed it to her on Monday."

Darcy snickers, "that's a rookie mistake, Jane is the most absent-minded person I've known. She probably stashed it under her work papers and then promptly went back to stargazing and find scientific phenomena."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Well, my point still stands, are you going to the party on Friday? There will be alcoho-"

"Yes. Anything to numb the pain of working with Dr. Reed."

"He's not that bad."

"Yes, he is! Especially with all of them in one room."

"Fantastic Four is collectively annoying as hell, but separately, they aren't bad. Except Johnny. He's begging me to hate him."

Darcy raises her eyebrows, she hadn't expected that.

"I was talking about the scientists, but yeah, now I guess I know where you stand on their team."

"The scientists?"

Darcy nods, "Yep. Every time they get into a fight, which is every single session, it's like watching your siblings fight. Except all of them are like that movie _Superbabies: Baby Geniuses_ , so you can't say anything cause they're smarter than you are and you can't do anything cause they're all babies.

Sharon laughs comes out slowly and then all at once. She laughs so hard that she chokes, "Oh my god. That movie was terrible, but that's also the most accurate description I've heard."

"Yes. They are all terrible. So yes, if there is alcohol served at this party, you bet your ass I will be there."

There's a twinkle in Sharon's eyes that Darcy doesn't like, "great! I'll let them know. Dress pretty! It's business casual."

"I'll wear my finest suit," Darcy deadpans, then her expression changes to something akin to defeat, "But now, I'm gonna head to the showers, I smell like what a sewer would smell like if they could throw up. Later!"

"Bye."

Darcy shakes her head, eager to wash off her filth that she doesn't notice Sharon pull out her phone and grin sinisterly into the screen as she typed out her message to Steve.

_Plan's a go :)_

 

 

 

**

 

 

It was a cold, blurry afternoon when Darcy decides that she would be polite. Or as polite as her DNA transcribed her to be. She sat cross legged on the lab table while Jane tore a senile scientist a new one. It was going great, from the looks of Jane's death eyes.

"The equation is wrong, the four is supposed to be carried-"

"No, it isn't. It's carried after the six is reduced."

Jane's face looked like she's been sucking in a lemon, "where did you learn how to do basic math? Blandlot didn't even fuck up this bad."

Basic math? Darcy mouths. If this was basic math, she was seriously held back as a child. Unfortunately, Jane's stature of five foot did not supply an intimidating demeanour at all. Fortunately, Jane's stature had an incredible backbone to balance that out. But shit was getting serious, Jane hardly ever swore. She only swore when she was either really sad and was trying really hard not to cry, or when she was getting increasingly angry. Judging by the redness of her face, Darcy would choose the latter.

"No, I learned this at the Institute of-"

"Failing Basic Math? Yes, I got that. Maybe if you paid more attention in class, you would have known better."

Darcy reels back her unbridled glee and takes a sip of her coffee to hide her smile. The coffee simmers into her taste buds, she was lucky enough to get the last delicious cup of Stark's delicious and ridiculously overpriced coffee blend. It's moments like these that she's glad that this is her life. She's always hated Dr. Goraya and his stupid condescending tone and stupid old man hands. 'Give me coffee, girl'  or 'what are you even doing in the lab?' or even her favourite 'what is your degree even in?' always made her itch to pummel his face. She knows it's a bit immature, but it somehow settles her watching Jane, her five foot scientist, rip him a new asshole. It was almost like poetic justice.

"Take this sheet and redo it, and give me the correct formula and calculations prior to setting the beam at negative. If you don't have this done by tomorrow morning, consider your contract with Stark industries finished. Do you understand me?"

Dr. Goraya presses his chapped lips together, caging what Darcy knows, is his snarl between his teeth. His moustache twitches in rage. He nods slowly, stiff as if it's killing him to listen to Jane. He grabs the sheet and turns mechanically to the door and walks in a beeline through the threshold.

Darcy politely waits until the door hisses close and then smiles like a cat to Jane. She slow claps. 

"And that's why you should never argue with Jane Foster, ladies and gents. She'll chew you a new one and make grown men cry. Or hit you with a car."

"I do not. And the car was a one time thing," Jane picks up a nearby clipboard and busies herself in flipping through the pages, "and it's not a simple mistake, do you know what he did, Darce?"

Darcy shakes her head, lips pressing together in a true herculean effort to not laugh.

"He messed up so badly that even the builders of titanic are rolling in their graves. He literally screwed up the _whole_ equation we were working on. The whole equation. The one we used for all the machines! It was for the foundation and now we have to scrap it for the whole project. It's going to take us months for us to fix that!"

Steam comes out of her ears, and Darcy sees the frustration clearly in her eyes. Jane throws the clipboard down like a petulant child throwing presents down after being told that they couldn't open it until the morning of Christmas. Darcy jumps off the table and pats Jane's shoulders.

"There, there." she offers what she thinks is a comforting and hopeful smile, "just because Goraya is a shitdick doesn't mean we should ruin our lives for that. Just take a deep breath and just take a night off, I mean we have Stark's party to go to tonight, right? We can't do anything until we get the right equation. We should get super drunk."

Jane whips her head in a speed so fast that she might get whiplash, a shadow of recognition in her eyes. "Oh shit. I forgot about that." 

"The party? Yeah, I thought you would have. So I took the liberty to set an alarm on your phone. It should be ringing any time soon."

"No, that's not it. You need to go get ready!"

"Me? What? That's my line!"

Jane takes a look at her watch, a panicked look washes over her and then she stares at Darcy.

Suddenly, she's all pushy hands and starts moving Darcy to the doors.

"Jane, what are you- stop pushing. My coffee!" she exclaims as her coffee sloshes in her cup, the heavenly liquid almost spilling out of the rim. Jane gives her a good push and Darcy wonders when did she start working out. She's strong for a keebler elf.

"You need to get ready!"

Placing the coffee down, she wipes her fingers onto her jeans, "chill, Jane. We got like," she looks at her watch, "three hour before we need to be there and I'm always fashionably late. Why are you so eager to go, any ways? You've always hated parties. you've always hated fun."

That statement makes Jane pause her unnecessary assault, just enough for Darcy to get a quick step back.

Jane's jaw slackens, "I don't hate fun."

"Okay, let's not say things we don't mean."

"Fun is subjective, I like fun."

"Mmmm, if that's what you like to call holing yourself with science."

"I do! It is fun, and educational!"

"Alright, funsucker, if that's your brand of fun, apparently you've been having it ever since you've moved into Stark Towers. Oh, look at you, science! So fun!"

"It is fun!"

"Saying it over again won't make it any less false." 

Jane glowers. She starts marching towards Darcy with a renewed confidence. She takes the part back where she says that Jane was not intimidating.

Jane aims to grip her elbows and when she does, Darcy grabs her forearms. They end up gripping each other like a pair of tangled crabs.

"Whatever, but we can't be late for this party."

"Why? I'm always late to parties."

"Yes, but there's someone important you need to meet. We can't be late this time."

"Whoa, Whoa. Sharon didn't say anything about mingling. I'm going for the free booze. I thought this was supposed to be business free?"

Realizing her mistake, Jane backtracks to do some damage control, "it is business free. But there are some people she really wants us to meet. Some colleagues of hers or something. So, you really need to go get ready."

Darcy narrows her eyes, Jane fights herself to not fidget.

A minute later, resignation dims Darcy's eyes.

"Fine. But I'm limiting myself to saying 'hi' to each person and then the rest of the time I will be ingesting booze until my blood turns into alcohol."

"Okay, okay! But go. Get ready. Wear that dress you wore to Ian's birthday last year, and those shoes you just bought!"

"My boobie dress? Why? I have no one to impress-"

"Just do it!" Jane walks her backwards using her grip on her forearms and pushes her out of the room. Darcy rights her footing at the last second, just in time to hear the door hiss.

Behind the door, Jane slams the locks down. She waves through the circular window, a touch psychotically, like the infamous scene from The Shining where Jack Torrance slams his axe against the wooden door, intent on murdering his wife. Darcy waves back dumbly, and Jane motions for her to leave. She then disappears from the frame. Darcy stands there puzzled, gathering her wits, and then starts walking to the direction to her room, wondering what the hell just happened.

It not until she's halfway to her floor that she realizes something.

"My coffee!" she moans.

 

 

**

 

_I'm running late. I'll meet you at the party._

Bucky glanced at the clock on the night stand for the fifth time in the past ten minutes. He straightens the tie had put on fifteen minutes earlier. He looks at the clock again, making sure that he has enough time to have a smoke before he has to leave. Running a hand through his hair, he stands up and straightens his dark grey suit.

"Punk better leave me alone after this," he mutters to himself. He pulls at the ends of his suit once more and stands straighter. The tie is itchy against his neck and he forces himself to keep it on.

Shoving his necessities- keys, phone and wallet into his pocket, he steps out onto the connecting balcony and lights a cigarette. The nicotine pulls into his bloodstream and almost instantly soothes his broken nerves. Honest to God, he doesn't give a shit to the majority of what people think of him, but the fact that he's going to present himself to Steve's people after an extended absence makes a sick pinched feeling in his chest.

He's so spaced out that he forgets to take a drag of his cigarette. The cigarette is almost burnt away to the filter, smoke curling around the tip. He takes one last drag, taps the cigarette on the balcony ledge and accidentally marks a spot on the alabaster. Grinding it under his heel, he slips back into his room. The clock tells him he still has four more minutes. He does a quick sweep of his room, his fingers tapping along his thigh. A picture of Steve and him sits on the night stand that is otherwise empty. The bed is unmade, there are books everywhere and a stack of new DVDs beside the television.  Steve lent them to him, stating it would help him understand obscure references of what the world was like. His eyes flicker through the titles. So far, he has pitched through Jurassic Park, Home Alone and two of the Lord of the Rings.

He's enjoyed them immensely, especially Lord of the Rings. He hadn't had time to watch the rest, not with the constant barrage of new missions and other more important things. Truly important things such as grudgingly attending parties and making sure Steve doesn't accidentally kill himself, which was truly a feat in itself.

Mentally preparing himself, he gives one last longing look at the pile of DVDs and leaves his apartment. He walks down the hall to the elevator, his finger sinks in the call button and he watches the numbers pass on the top. Inside, he presses the 47th floor like the invite said. The floors tick up fast, like a countdown and he is struck with the sudden fear that has been metastasising insidiously inside of him. 

His palms feel slick against his pants. His throat closes. He watches as the numbers flicker faster on the bar, he feels like he's losing time.

'Jarvis?'

"Yes, Mr. Barnes?"

"Can you please stop the elevator for a moment?"

"Certainly, Sir."

There are no sounds that signify that the elevator has stopped, but the numbers pause on top. A huff of frustration expels from his chest, taking with it the modicum of serenity he felt prior entering the elevator. He leans his head against the metal doors. It feels cold against his forehead and he needs it. He needs the solidity to ground him. To make sure that this is real and this is happening. He breathes in deep, just like how Steve told him to, to keep the anxiety from bubbling over.

"Come on, you've faced HYDRA and Red Skull and fuckin' Nazis. You can talk to people for a little more than an hour."

Just behind the doors are going to be people who are going to judge him and hate him for what he's done under HYDRA. They're going to take one look and realize that he's something dirty and rotten and doesn't deserve Steve as a friend. He's going to walk in and he's going to see hatred and bated breaths and distrust and sneered faces. He imagines the contemptuous looks of everyone. It didn't matter who's face he saw, he just knows the disgust and fear that would radiate from it. His chest constricts harder, like he's swimming in deep waters and waves are overlapping over his head. He doesn't realize that the quick intakes of breaths are his own and he holds it in when he does. It accumulates like storm clouds behind his lips and when the pressure is too much, he lets it all out in one shuddering breath. Cupping both his hands, he wipes his face with his palm. He swallows, his throat muscles scraping against each other.

"I'm ready, Jarvis. You can start the elevator again."

The numbers scroll and then the elevator halts when it reaches the floor. The doors open slowly, and he keeps his eyes down on the ground to make sure he doesn't make eye contact with anyone.

"Fuckin' Steve," he mutters and looks up.

He was so focused on regulating his breathing that he doesn't notice that it was erroneously calm when he walked out.  It bypasses him completely that something was amiss until he steps off the elevator. He freezes. The restaurant holds an ambiance of quiet elegance, a dichotomy to Stark's regular ostentatious themes. There are no streamers nor glittery lights. Instead there is a single table in the middle, candlelight illuminates the room, a set of plates sit on top the stark tablecloth.

A woman sits on one side of the table. She startles the same time she hears him crossing the elevator doors. She stands up, a look of panic and rush sears through the room, and he realizes something was seriously wrong.

"Wait, don't let the elevator-"

The elevator doors had already started on their reconciliation when he stepped out. Even with his training, it shut behind him before he can shove his hand between the sliding panels.

"-shut." 

He hears the groan behind him and then sound of her sitting. The weirdness this situation suddenly presented distracts him from the predisposed area his mind had treaded on and it's a welcome feeling. He turns around and she looks resigned in every way possible.

"Motherfucker. Are you serious? You were my last hope." She mutters and takes a swig of the wine bottle. She stands up with the bottle of whiskey in her left hand, and in one brief moment of consideration, grabs the other one as well. Her gait is somewhat swaying, possibly from the previous inebriation she has partaken in. She walks, heels clicking sharply on the floor, hair bouncing with every step. Stopping a foot from him, she offers him the bottle.

He stares at her and she stares back. He takes her all in. She's wearing a red blouse that flares under her breasts, a pair of second skin leather pants. He licks his lips. On her feet, she's adorning a pair of shiny black heels. The ones that made their calves look delectable.

"Eyes up, Sergeant."

She shakes the bottle and he looks up to her face. Amused blue, blue eyes look into his and he can't help but lecherously grin at the incredulous look in them.

"You're going to need this."

He takes the offered bottle, it clinks against his metal palm. He looks to her again, she tilts her chin in challenge, as if the would determine the next rule. He's always loved a good challenge, especially when it was from a good looking dame. Slowly and deliberately, he moves the bottle to his lips, then tilts his neck and lets the alcohol flow into his mouth. When he looks back, she has taken a gulp of the other bottle she had in her hand. Her face screws up into a comical scrunch and then resumes it's natural look.

"What is this for?"

She motions to the table behind her and then slowly blinks twice, as if it was obvious, "I'm saying this and it's not because I don't think that you're probably a great guy. You possibly are, but you have shit tastes in friends. Actually, I have shit tastes in friends, so it's somehow on both of our shitty friends."

"What?"

It confuses him on what she's talking about, and she has not answered his question. His eyes track the room, he's notices the placement of everything. The candles emitting the dim light and the open view on the window, the folded napkins on the plates and the roses on the table. The barrenness of the room, the sky moonlighting the table for two. It's a romantic set up. It's a-

She eyes him, and clinks the bottle to his. She gives a smirk, lifts the bottle and before it can suction into her plush lips, she says it.

"We're on a blind date."

Bucky closes his eyes and reiterates the thought again.

Fuckin' Steve.

**Author's Note:**

> there's a parks and rec reference in here. hope you can spot it :)
> 
> title is from beyonce's 'blow'.
> 
> i can't stop writing things.
> 
> i'm sorry.
> 
> follow me on tumblr: plannedserviceinterruption


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